System S.E.X. (Seduction, Expansion, eXecution)-Chapter 329: The Sovereign’s Decree

Ethan’s jaw was a jagged line of granite as he drove. His earpiece was patched directly into the Royal Defense Grid, and the audio was a symphony of nightmares. He heard the wet thud of bullets hitting flesh, the frantic last breaths of his men over open comms, and the relentless chatter of automatic fire. The losses were heavy—too heavy.

But for every Royal soldier who fell, five or six mercenaries were being shredded by the disciplined return fire. Yet, the enemy had the advantage of madness and numbers.

"Crul, the velvet gloves are off. Activate Emergency Protocol: Iron Curtain," Ethan said.

[[Protocol Iron Curtain authorized. Engaging autonomous defense systems,]] Crul replied.

In an instant, high-frequency sirens wailed from every Royal-owned skyscraper and warehouse across the city. Small, sleek panels slid open in the masonry of the buildings, revealing automated micro-turrets.

On the rooftops of the secondary facilities, the hangars hissed open. Six heavy-attack helicopters, bristling with air-to-ground missiles and rotary cannons, rose into the smoky sky like vengeful gods.

"Annihilate them," Ethan said.

He tapped his earpiece, his voice broadcasting across every Royal frequency. "All units, fall back! Abandon the streets and seek heavy cover within the reinforced sectors! Do it now!" Ethan said.

The Royal soldiers were confused—they were holding their ground—but their faith in Ethan was absolute. They began a coordinated retreat, diving into doorways and behind armored barriers. The street gangs and mercenaries, seeing the retreat, let out a collective roar of triumph.

"They’re out of ammo! The rats are running! Push forward! Get the bounty!" a gang leader shouted, waving a rusted AK-47 toward the Tower.

Dozens of makeshift armored trucks accelerated, filled with men eager for the 10-billion-dollar prize. They thought they had won. They were wrong.

Suddenly, the roar of the mobs was drowned out by the scream of sirens—not Royal’s, but the high-pitched wail of the City Police.

Just as the Federal government had ordered a total blackout, a massive column of patrol cars and tactical vans swerved onto the main boulevard. Behind them, a few heavy Jeep-style armored vehicles from the National Guard followed, their turreted guns swiveling toward the mercenaries.

Thompson was in the lead Jeep, his face pale but determined.

[Flashback - 10 Minutes Earlier]

Thompson stood before the Chief of Police and the remaining Commanders of the Guard in the precinct courtyard. The Federal order to stand down sat on the table like a death warrant.

"The government has abandoned us. They’ve labeled this a ’Federal Containment Zone.’ If we stay, we are safe. If we go out there, they will call us terrorists. They will call us traitors. Our careers, our lives—everything is on the line," Thompson said.

He looked each man in the eye, his voice trembling with a mix of fear and fury.

"But look at those screens! Civilians are being executed for sport! Children are caught in the crossfire! Can you live with yourselves? Can you go home to your families tonight knowing you let a city burn because a bureaucrat told you to? I’m going out there. I may be a traitor by the sun’s end, but I will be a man," Thompson said.

The Army units turned their backs and marched away, following orders. But the police—the men and women who called North End home—stayed. A small group of National Guard soldiers stepped forward, their hands on their rifles. "We’re with you, Governor," they said.

[Present]

The police and the defiant soldiers slammed into the flank of the mercenary groups.

"Open fire! Clear the streets of these bastards!" Thompson shouted, leaning out of the Jeep with a sidearm.

The mercenaries were caught in a pincer. In front of them, Royal’s automated turrets began to hum, and from above, the helicopters opened their bays.

The gang members who had been cheering seconds ago were turned into red mist before they could even register the sound.

"It’s a trap! The buildings are shooting back!" a mercenary screamed, just before a .50 caliber round from a Royal Falcon helicopter vaporized the engine block of his truck.

The six helicopters hovered like black vultures, their rotary cannons spinning up. They didn’t fire in bursts; they unleashed a continuous stream of glowing tracers that cut through the makeshift armored vans as if they were made of wet paper. The "technical" trucks exploded in spectacular blossoms of orange and black, sending shrapnel whistling into the ranks of the hunters.

In the middle of the carnage, Thompson’s rebel police force pushed forward. They weren’t using the precise tactics of Royal; they were fighting with the desperation of men defending their homes.

"Shields up! Move! Move!" the Police Chief barked.

A group of Black Skull-affiliated mercenaries tried to set up a heavy machine gun on a balcony to suppress the police line. But before they could chamber a round, a Falcon helicopter pivoted mid-air.

[Target acquired. Cleaning the balcony,] crul said.

A single air-to-ground missile streaked from the chopper’s pylon. The explosion blew the entire second floor of the building into the street, burying the machine gun team under tons of masonry.

Inside the Royal Tower, the chaos was just as intense. Jason was moving through the darkened hallways of the 15th floor, his tactical flashlight cutting through the smoke. He could hear the heavy boots of the Black Skull "Elites" who had breached the lower levels. These weren’t the screaming gang members from the street; these were professionals who moved in silence.

[Jason, they’ve breached the secondary elevator shafts! They’re bypassing the lockouts!] Crul’s voice echoed over the internal speakers.

"How many?!" Jason said, checking his magazine.

"Twelve signatures. They are using high-frequency cloaking. I can only track their thermal displacement. They are four floors below you," Crul said.

Jason pulled a pair of stun grenades from his vest. "Tell the girls to lock the final vault. I’m going to thin the herd," Jason said.

Back on the main road, Ethan’s truck was a battered beast, its armor scarred and smoking. He was less than a mile from the Tower when a massive explosion rocked the bridge ahead of him. A fuel tanker, rigged with explosives by a suicide cell, detonated, collapsing a section of the overpass and blocking his path with a wall of flame and twisted metal.

Ethan slammed the truck into park. He didn’t look frustrated; he looked possessed. He stepped out of the vehicle, the purple lightning around his body so intense that the falling ash disintegrated before it could touch his suit.

He looked at the hundred or so armed men emerging from the shadows of the wreckage, their eyes gleaming with the thought of the 10-billion-dollar bounty.

"You really think a fire is going to stop me?" Ethan said.

He raised his hand toward the sky, and the clouds above North End seemed to swirl into a violent vortex, responding to the Ethan’s call.